“Why, yes, of course,” he said, awakening anew to her existence. “Though I was just thinking what a mild day it is for the season. Now I warrant that cold of yours is twice as bad as it was. You had no business to chop that hair off, Marty; it serves you almost right. Look here, cut off home at once.”
“A run down the lane will be quite enough.”
“No, it won’t. You ought not to have come out today at all.”
“But I should like to finish the—”
“Marty, I tell you to go home,” said he, peremptorily. “I can manage to keep the rest of them upright with a stick or something.”
She went away without saying any more. When she had gone down the orchard a little distance she looked back. Giles suddenly went after her.
“Marty, it was for your good that I was rough, you know. But warm yourself in your own way, I don’t care.”
When she had run off he fancied he discerned a woman’s dress through the holly-bushes which divided the coppice from the road. It was Grace at last, on her way back from the interview with Mrs. Charmond. He threw down the tree he was planting, and was about to break through the belt of holly when he suddenly became aware of the presence of another man, who was looking over the hedge on the opposite side of the way upon the figure of the unconscious Grace. He appeared as a handsome and gentlemanly personage of six or eight and twenty, and was quizzing her through an eyeglass. Seeing that Winterborne was noticing him, he let his glass drop with a click upon the rail which protected the hedge, and walked away in the opposite direction. Giles knew in a moment that this must be Mr. Fitzpiers. When he was gone, Winterborne pushed through the hollies, and emerged close beside the interesting object of their contemplation.
IX
“I heard the bushes move long before I saw you,” she began. “I said first, ‘it is some terrible beast;’ next, ‘it is a poacher;’ next, ‘it is a friend!’ ”
He regarded her with a slight smile, weighing, not her speech, but the question whether he should tell her that she had been watched. He decided in the negative.
“You have been to the house?” he said. “But I need not ask.” The fact was that there shone upon Miss Melbury’s face a species of exaltation, which saw no environing details nor his own occupation; nothing more than his bare presence.
“Why need you not ask?”
“Your face is like the face of Moses when he came down from the Mount.”
She reddened a little and said, “How can you be so profane, Giles Winterborne?”
“How can you think so much of that class of people? Well, I beg pardon; I didn’t mean to speak so freely. How do you like her house and her?”
“Exceedingly. I had not been inside the walls since I was a child, when it used to be let to strangers, before Mrs. Charmond’s late husband bought the property. She is so nice!” And Grace fell into such an abstracted gaze at the imaginary image of Mrs. Charmond and her niceness that it almost conjured up a vision of that lady in midair before them.
“She has only been here a month or two, it seems, and cannot stay much longer, because she finds it so lonely and damp in winter. She is going abroad. Only think, she would like me to go with her.”
Giles’s features stiffened a little at the news. “Indeed; what for? But I won’t keep you standing here. Hoi, Robert!” he cried to a swaying collection of clothes in the distance, which was the figure of Creedle his man. “Go on filling in there till I come back.”
“I’m a-coming, sir; I’m a-coming.”
“Well, the reason is this,” continued she, as they went on together—“Mrs. Charmond has a delightful side to her character—a desire to record her impressions of travel, like Alexandre Dumas, and Mery, and Sterne, and others. But she cannot find energy enough to do it herself.” And Grace proceeded to explain Mrs. Charmond’s proposal at large. “My notion is that Mery’s style will suit her best, because he writes in that soft, emotional, luxurious way she has,” Grace said, musingly.
“Indeed!” said Winterborne, with mock awe. “Suppose you talk over my head a little longer, Miss Grace Melbury?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean it!” she said, repentantly, looking into his eyes. “And as for myself, I hate French books. And I love dear old Hintock, and the people in it, fifty times better than all the Continent. But the scheme; I think it an enchanting notion, don’t you, Giles?”
“It is well enough in one sense, but it will take you away,” said he, mollified.
“Only for a short time. We should return in May.”
“Well, Miss Melbury, it is a question for your father.”
Winterborne walked with her nearly to her house. He had awaited her coming, mainly with the view of mentioning to her his proposal to have a Christmas party; but homely Christmas gatherings in the venerable and jovial Hintock style seemed so primitive and uncouth beside the lofty matters of her converse and thought that he refrained.
As soon as she was gone he turned back towards the scene of his planting, and could not help saying to himself as he walked, that this engagement of his was a very unpromising business. Her outing today had not improved it. A woman who could go to Hintock House and be friendly with its mistress, enter into the views of its mistress, talk like her, and dress not much unlike
